For a moment, all I could see was his hand.
Years earlier, he had repaired the dining chairs in the garage. I remembered complaining that mine rocked. He had told me every floor in an old house had its opinions.
I had never known he had marked it.
Cole touched the wood without covering the words.
“He made me help that summer,” he said. “I wanted to go swimming.”
I laughed through the sudden ache in my throat.
“He probably let you go.”
“After this one.”
There were fresh tears on his face.
I crouched beside him, and together we held the chair steady.
The place Tara had tried to erase had been marked for me all along, in a hand neither of us would ever mistake.
“Don’t sand that off,” I whispered.
“Never.”
The next Thanksgiving, there were six of us: Ruth, Beth, Cole, my neighbors Martin and June, and me.
Cole arrived early. At the door, he waited until I stepped aside.
Then he carried the potatoes into the kitchen and asked what needed doing.
“Water glasses.”
He filled them.
Beth brought flowers from the last stubborn plants in her garden. Ruth brought rolls. June burned her pie slightly, and Martin declared that the dark edge was his favorite part.
I used my mother’s china.
Before dinner, I stopped beside Walt’s photograph. Cole had found the original print and cleaned the glass. The trout was still unimpressive. Walt was still delighted with it.
I touched the frame, then turned toward the table.
My chair stood beside the window, where the afternoon light fell warm across the seat.
Cole was waiting behind it.
He drew it out gently.
“Mom, sit down.”
I looked at him long enough to see him hold my gaze.
Then I sat.
He took the place beside me. Around us, dishes began to pass from hand to hand, and someone asked for more gravy.
Beneath the table, my chair stood firm on all four legs.
